Picasso had painted the events of his daily life, almost like a journal, and while Harley wasn’t interested in appropriating Picasso’s heavy, color-book black line, he had no qualms about making use of his diary concept. Picasso himself said: “I never borrow from other artists; I steal from them; I take it and make it my own.”
A muddle of thoughts and impressions jimmied his mind as he took the stairs out of the subway near Canal.
The vagrant was still there, perched on the landing, fondling his pink balloon. Again Harley skirted around the man. He was twenty yards from the entrance when someone called, “Hey!” He turned to see the blackened derelict standing in the mouth of the subway entrance, one hand cradling the balloon, the other clutching the banister.
“Who
are
you?” the man shouted, his tone urgent, as if he desperately needed to know.
Harley watched him a moment, then went on his way.
He picked up his mail on the ground floor of his building, took the elevator up and let himself in. A certain comfort settled over him now that he was home, back among his paintings.
He looked at the works lined up along the back wall, and while none satisfied him entirely, he was pleased with the direction the work was taking, especially
My Mother’s Kitchen
and
My Father is a Farmer
. Each suggested a facet of existence as he had known it. These works had to be teased out of nothing other than experience and knowledge—a process of exploration by way of anticipation and uncertainty.
Blissful moments he’d had with Frankie collided in his mental vision—the best moments he’d ever had. How to paint something so impossibly elusive? Vaguely he began to envision soft, interlocking organic shapes, subdued flesh tones tempered in moonlight…
The Sensual Bed
.
There had been tears in her eyes. He could only hope they were tears of sorrow and regret and not unforgivable anger. He wasn’t going to let her go so easily. They would run into each other again. He would paint
The Sensual Bed
in homage. Exhausted as he was, he was eager to get started.
If, as some pundits claimed, art was dead, that had little to do with him.
Art. That’s what he did. That’s who he was.
—o—
Other books by this author:
http://www.amazon.com/John-J-Asher/e/B008FBZKL0
Acknowledgments
Thanks
to Tiffany Yates Martin, Kelly Harrell, and Amber Novak, three excellent writers, razor-sharp critiquers, and beloved friends. Without your red pens and editorial input over many a good meal, and not a few glasses of wine, this novel wouldn’t exist. To each of you, I am eternally grateful.
Thanks also to Deanna Roy of
Casey Shay Press
, and Lara Reznik of
Enchanted Indie Press
for your continued support and friendship, for your priceless suggestions and technical expertise.
—o—